


Summer Sock Hops Are For Suckers

by ASignificantWhisper



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 50's AU, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Greaser Mickey, Hand Jobs, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, Slurs, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASignificantWhisper/pseuds/ASignificantWhisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer of 1956 hasn't even started yet, but Ian Gallagher finds himself scorching in the presence of Mickey Milkovich.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dream Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooooo, I've had this idea in my head for a while. Various versions of it too. It's an AU that I really enjoy planning for and writing. I love the idea of 50's Ian and Mickey. This is something a little different, so I'm hoping it doesn't suck entirely? I'll add the tags as I go along if there needs to be more, lmao? This chapter is written from Ian's perspective. The next will jump into Mickey's. Then both of their POV's in chapters to follow. BIG thanks to my girls Hunter @anothergallavichlove, KT @rogueleader1987 & Johna @Death_by_Gallavich for lending me their ears of encouragement to post this. I love you three! 
> 
> Lemme know what you think? :) Enjoy!

**May 28th, 1956**

 

He kicks and kicks at the clutch with the rubber sole of his simple chuck, a sigh heaving from his parted lips. Folding his arms together, the leather of his letterman jacket sleeves crunching under the ministration, Ian Gallagher piles his face into the cocoon his forearms have made. This is the sixth time in the past month that the caddy has broken down. Why his car? Why not the piece of crap family car that was dubbed the _'family vehicle'_?

 

Yeah, he may be sitting in a beat up, rust covered 1940's powder blue Cadillac, but he was Ian's baby. One that his after school job paid for, without any help from his swamped sister or Grade A brother. Ian loved the caddy from the moment he walked by the broken down lot and saw it - opting away from the shinier, newer things, in favor of the old blue beauty. At the memory, Ian trails his fingers over the large steering wheel. He worked and worked and worked for months, before he gave out the cash hand to hand to the surprised car dealer. Ian didn't care for the shock value of the man's snicker at worming a less than fortunate kid out of more money he really couldn't afford to give away anyways. Ian wasn't stupid. He knew the car was... for lackluster term's sake _'a clunker'_. Even his eldest and older sister Fiona had pegged and pestered Ian as to why he couldn't get something nicer as hard as he had worked.

 

And Ian loved his sister, he really did. Balancing a blend of two jobs, raising himself and his other four siblings ; Lip, Debbie, Carl and Liam. The Gallagher's weren't really the kind of people accepted in society though, well, not at first. Their lack of any technical parental figure frowned upon. Their mother and father's whispered about reputations. That and their residence in the prominently criminal Canaryville. Still, frustrating as always, Ian and his brother had and continue to make good impressions on the Northside folk. You wouldn't know the difference between both their GPA's and social status. Hell, even the Gallagher household was in the running for a possible PTA meeting. Okay, maybe not that far.

 

But it was good, it _is_ good. With Ian and Lip working dual shifts at the market near their neighborhood, Fiona working her two jobs, their family could afford bills, good food, and nice clothing now. Sure, it wasn't a lot all the time, but with his senior year looming with a brightness shining through, Ian is filled with hope. So much hope that he doesn't care where he comes from. Or the still rounding gossip. No one even really speaks about it anymore. Not to his face, at least.

 

He and his brother have done good. Lip is preparing himself for college uptown. Debbie and Carl nearing high school. Ian always loved the physical sports. Gym class, running, all of it. So it is no surprise that he's well on his way to college next year with an athletic scholarship himself, options of career choices wide open, much like his older brother Lip. Yeah, they have their troubles now and again, but they're South Sider's. It was bound to happen one way or another. Especially when Ian would have to pop a prep in the mouth at school. He may be classified as one, shotty upbringing status quo or not, but he was damned he'd let himself sink into that type of person. Ian's friends he kept were mostly the same on that front. He is lucky. Only, not today.....

 

With a groan he raises himself up, tapping the radio, willing it to at least be the working part in his car. He palms a hand over his clean shaven face, shrugging out of his jacket, keeping his pin striped sweater on. With summer in the air, the afternoon's were starting to scorch. Ian surveys his powdered pretty, cursing it a brief moment as he trudges around the gravel road to start pushing the damned thing until he hopefully sees any sign of help. This will teach him to take a back road drive when he knows it's rough on the vehicle.

~*~

Ian grew lucky after he managed to get the car up the road to a winding path. Right at the end of the dirt road that cut off into a gravel road, was a large barn-converted garage style auto shop, a large white sign over head that read **_Milkovich Auto Body Shop_**. _Ah._ Ian heard about the Milkovich's. He rolls a slightly tense shoulder, forcing himself not to be such a pussy about this whole experience, and he pushes on with tired, cramped shoulders. After parking his car with the gear, making sure it wouldn't vanish, Ian looks around for any sign of Milkovich, any sign of life. _Nothing._

 

It grows beyond awkward after a few moments, so Ian jams his thumbs into the pockets of his dark jeans, kicking at the dirt as he approaches what looks like the office through the big open barn door with an asphalt flooring laid down. There's a few cars lined down the middle, tags stuck to the windshields with names. Racks with supplies and the sounds of sparks going underway in the back that momentarily distract Ian.

 

"Hello?" He licks his dry lips, repeating the unanswered word a few more times, each time growing more uneasy and louder.

 

At about the sixth deep hello Ian gets a shrill snapping female's attention. She comes from the door to the office, Ian assumes, leaving it open, clearly fuming at his annoying antics and volume.

 

"Okay, okay. Make me deaf, candyass. Jesus. What?" She snaps, staring at Ian with a clipboard held at her waist.

She's got her hair pinned up into a messy dark bun, her eyes striking, her makeup a bit darker than Ian was used to seeing on normal girls. She wore a set of black flats to match her black leggings. Her silk pink button up was tucked in at the waist, the last few buttons undone to accentuate the pearls hanging around her neck, helping to frame her cleavage. Yeah, she definitely is not like the girls at school. And if Ian actually interested himself in pretending to pursue, or if he actually did want to pursue, he would probably be babbling out a corny pickup line or flexing a muscle or something right now.

 

Her annoyance briefly falters as she gives Ian the once over, obviously catching him staring. Her tone is a little softer now, her attention on him. _Oh, boy._ Why did he have to stare? He did this before. Back when he wasn't ready to accept his sexuality in a culture that thought sex was a magic fantasy impossible to indulge in. It's just how things were, how they currently are. Ian dated, he slept with girls for a while. All of it was hidden like the night during. Never spoken of again after, played up innocent.

 

But it never got Ian feeling as good as he did when he was alone with his magazine clippings of Rock Hudson, Clark Gable and Cary Grant. His family picked up on it, Lip finding his stash. They didn't care. The Gallagher's never followed society. Ian is gay. He accepts it. His family accepts it. It doesn't make him sick, not like the papers, the pamphlets in school say. But he has to bite his tongue. He's on thin ice with his last year at school. If he wants to get out, help eventually get his sister's and brother's out, he has to push through.

 

He has to be careful when finding out who he can be with nowadays. Not a lot of guys are open to being with another man. Ian, he is parts wanting to agree on his scholarship's behalf, but then part of him wants to be free and be who he is. By the time his thoughts are drifting the girl is getting closer to him, snapping her red nails.

 

"Hey, you with me cutie pie? I don't got all day, y'know?"

 

She tries to be sarcastic, but Ian catches a crack of her smile, watching her ease off a little. He nods, scrubbing a hand through his red hair. "Uh, uh, yeah. My car stowed and it's outside. Can you guys maybe... do something? Help me get him back on the road?"

 

 _"Him?"_   The girl mutters, amused. "You sound like Mickey."

 

_Mickey? Who is Mickey?_

 

"HEY, shithead!? Got a neato preppy out here. Need's his chubby checked. You down?"

 

Ian's eyes widen, struggling to keep up with her language and its double meaning. _At least to him_. He hears a voice holler, the tools in the back momentarily dimming. The voice is deep, unique. It intrigues Ian a little.

 

"Told ya not to call me any names at work, bitch! Tell him if he ain't got the cash to chuck out up front, he can go on his merry way."

 

Mandy looks at Ian expectantly, his attire obviously a cause for her to assume he's able to pay. He shrugs his sore shoulders and she sighs, looking perplexed. Her eyes are easy with something seconds later.

 

"He's good at working out deals. Just go on back. I'll get your car in the shop. He's a sucker for fancy makes and models. IGGY!"

 

Ian watches the girl walk away and he's frowning, unbuttoning his sweater a little to let some air blow onto his white under tee shirt. He pushes through to the back, the setting as expected. Cars littered the place. On jacks, being looked over, cleaned. A few guys littered, some smoked, others were shoulder deep in elbow grease working and smoking. The few that do notice Ian snicker at him, making him feel like shit. He has done this judgmental dance. Even done the judging a few times. Not all appearances are as they seem.

 

He's about to leave, blow off this place, run. Push his car somewhere else. But he's broken out of his trance and shoved head on into another one as a guy strolls right into his sights, a fucking sunny halo practically framing around him. Ian feels himself blink in rapid successions, staring slightly slack jawed. The guy strutted, rolled smoothly on his feet, legs bowed out with tight dirty blue jeans, stained, clinging to his hips. Suspenders dangled against his thighs, clattering in the air with each movement of the guy's hips. He wore a tight fitting, grease smudged wife beater soaked in sweat, the guy's chest clean shaven. The guy's skin so fucking creamy Ian can feel his mouth watering at wanting to taste the beginning of summer off the man. Ian outlines those grease stained biceps, those strong forearms covered in it down to the fingertips of each hand. Those perfect stout fingers. He has to lick his lips again at the bold **FUCK U - UP** inked letters decorating the knuckles of each hand. _Christ almighty._

 

The man wore simple black chucks to complete his outfit. Well, aside from the newsie cap he wore on his head, a cigarette peaking out from its spot underneath the cap, behind the man's ear. That's not what entirely knocks Ian off his feet as he's gaping at this Marlon Brando-esque type fucker, no. It's that face. Those perfectly plump lips, those cheeks, that jaw smeared in oil. Those sharp eyebrows that match that raven colored hair. And Ian's favorite part, _oh how it is his favorite_. Piercing blue eyes. Blue. Ian loves blue things. He edges his bottom lip between his teeth, clearing his throat. His heart beat thrums against his ribcage the moment those haunting eyes catch his gaze.

 

The man raises a brow, cutting Ian off before he can even get started.

 

"The fuck? I told her. No cash, no service. Daddy not give you enough money? Spend it all on milk shakes with Daisy Mae?"

 

The man snickers, sliding that nicotine from behind his ear, reaching into that tight jean pocket to flare his zippo to life, smoke engulfing the proximity he and Ian share.

 

Ian is offended. Fucking fuming at this. Also tempted and amused all at once. He's hungry, parched at all the emotions clouding his senses. _Wanting to just lean forward and... fuck._ The guy blows that sweet smoke out like magic. The sweat seems to curl in shape with his perfectly arched brow, making Ian wonder what else that mouth can do. He kicks himself. _No way someone like this is gay, right?_   Yeah, Ian has seen closeted stereo types, but this guy doesn't really... He doesn't vibe up Ian's senses. Much to Ian's souring chagrin, he decides to cut his drooling short before he gets shanked or dipped in a tar pit.

 

"He's a classic. 1940's caddy. Stowed on the gravel road about a mile from here. The girl out there," Ian breaks briefly, jabbing his pointer finger towards the shop entrance. "said you might be okay with cutting me a deal?"

 

True to the girl's statement, the guy's eyes light up, his fingers pinching the filter of the cigarette. "Fuck yeah, man. You really own a Cadillac? I bet that must've cost a fortune," The raven haired man chortles, his eyes still shining so fucking startling to Ian.

 

"Not a lot, I bet. I'm surprised. Look," A familiar voice cackles behind them, making them turn around at her presence.

 

The girl from before holds her clipboard, pointing to Ian's caddy now parked in a spot. Ian frowns, hard, lowering his head. You'd think they would go easier on him or something for not being all sparkle and shine in riches.

 

"Aye, ease off, Mandy. Cat's out of sight," The man practically barks, staring in awe at the classic car.

 

 _Yep, okay._ Ian's done for. _This guy is appreciating his car too?_ Ian shares a shell shocked look with Mandy as the guy is asking, well, demanding her to book his evening schedule for work. She rolls her eyes about boys and their toys, making Ian giddy, hot on the guy's tail, totally not looking at his perfectly shaped ass in those perfectly skin tight jeans. Or that sweat sopped tank top with... _OH, fuck._ With a silver chain peaking out amongst the glittering sweat beads and faded collar.

 

Ian watches him look around, inspect his car, pop the hood, close the hood, run those fingers across the in tact, glossy paint job. He whistles in what Ian hopes is approval, opening the front door to bend down and slip his finger into a small hole in the leather interior of the front seat. Ian's mouth goes dry again. It's moments of Ian getting lost in this guy just observing his car, crossing, uncrossing those defined arms to look some more, but he doesn't mind. He jumps a practical foot before the man reaches his side, waving his fingers to get his attention.

 

"So I've got a couple of questions.....?"

 

"Ian," Ian breaks off the guy's sentence with an answer.

 

The guy just raises his brows and continues, after adding in Ian's name, making Ian wonder if it's the heat making him go weak in the knees or something else entirely?

 

"Ian. One, where'd you get this? And two, you some kinda cross dresser?"

 

Ian is caught off guard, mumbling for an answer besides repeated _no's_  as the guy looks on amused to no end, thumbing in the back seat to where the pink poodle skirt lay. Ian doesn't mind cross dressing if that's what people are into, but he's not.

 

"Oh, that." Ian clears his throat, a laugh escaping. "Present for my younger sister. She's starting high school next year."

 

The guy nods, seemingly believing him. "Whatever, man. Your business. But I get that. Magnificent skankoid you just met back there used to go all outer limits for the things. I mean, but I don't get the hype on the ugly ass stuff. Who wants a dog on their clothes? Might as well get a fucking sweater with a dog on it too."

 

Ian feels a floaty, airy sensation surfacing in his chest, a laughter bubbling from his lips. He eyes the guy's shoes to avoid gazing in those blue orbs that light up even more so with that gorgeous smile, those perfect white teeth. The guy's chucks match his hair. _Hmm._  Ian manages to look back up when the guy gains the clipboard from the girl that gives him a smack on the head as she goes, making him call her several obscenities Ian is bemused at. _Foul mouth._ He's jotting different things down, wiggling his fingers as he asks Ian to give him basic details. Ian leaves his home phone and his last name, prompting Mickey to ask if he's Irish?

 

"Little bit, I guess?" Ian shrugs, rolling up the sleeves to his blue sweater, leaving his forearms out.

 

The man flips a paper over, looking back up to meet Ian's green eyes.

 

"I'm gonna work on this tonight. Might take a while since I'm assumin' the engine's shot by the looks of it. But, I can fix it. Know some people who know some people that can get the parts in quick for what we'll need. If it's not too bad I can have him on the road for you by tonight, then you just bring him back to make additional tune ups and shit. Sound good, Ian?"

 

Ian likes how his name sounds rolling off that mouth, that tongue. He bites into his own tongue, agreeing. Hoping he can afford this... deal? His smile is overcrowding his features. The guy is calling his car a he too. Not picking on him or anything like his friends or his brother's do for it. It makes him feel that stirring fire snap at his belly, warming him until he feels fuzzy and light headed. Ian steps forward to stroke at the paint job, afraid to leave his car in the hands of strangers. He might be messed up, but he's perfect to Ian.

 

"You like feelin' your car up, eh? One of those." The voice is right over his shoulder, that sweaty heat practically capturing Ian into labored, breathy pants.

 

He turns around, the guy backing up.

 

"S' cool, man. Car's in good hands here. You can hang around till I get it runnin' n' ready, if you want?"

 

Ian inclines his head, nodding. The guy starts back towards the front, Ian ogling him with caution. _How can he not?_ Ian does manage to get into a side by side pace as they path along the garage. Ian finds himself asking, curious.

 

"So, what's your name?"

 

The guy raises yet again, one of those perfectly shaped brows. "You didn't hear my sister yelling it out front? Fuck, you must be a lucky one," The guy snorts, opening the door to the front. "S' Mickey Milkovich."

 

Ian feels dumb, then timid, then something coiling tightly at being this close to Mickey in the door frame. _A Milkovich._ _Of course this is Mickey. Why wasn't he paying attention before? He lives close to Ian then, doesn't he? The local legends of the Milkovich's._ Ian's stomach is stirring with steroid induced butterflies, stepping over the threshold, meeting Mickey's blue eyes as Mickey asks him if he wants a coke or a beer?

 

Ian loves blue things.


	2. Fuck Ian Gallagher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Ian Gallagher is a fucking dead man, because Mickey wants him more than he's ever wanted anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at this? I'm actually publishing again. AND it's one of my WIP's. I know it's been far too long, and I'm a suck ass for keeping this update from interested reader's, but I had zero muse for this. Lately though, I've been going through my muse like a tornado or some shit? So I hope that this turned out okay? It's not as long as the first chapter, but it's close. It contains some sexual content. Hehe. Cause' yes, this is gonna be a slow burn. Don't you just love those? :P I just hope those that liked it before are still interested? And those that come along now like it too!? 
> 
> Also, noting ahead of time that Terry will be in the story in chapter 3 or 4. And there will be slurs and internalized homophobia from Mickey, because I'm keeping a lot of canon factors in this story, AU or not. I'll warn ahead of time and probably add tags as I go. Next chapter will focus heavily on Mickey's panic over his sexual status. He sort of accepts it somewhat, which is why he's okay to be so easily attracted to Ian in this chapter, but outwardly, when Ian becomes aware? That's when things will get rough. 
> 
> Anyways.....
> 
> See the bottom for some notes on the slang in this chapter and what kind of car the Milkovich's own is pictured. :)
> 
> Comments and kudos if you liked it, are much appreciated! Find me at my Tumblr. (wroteclassicaly.tumblr.com)

**~**

The office door hasn't even closed yet and Mickey is regretting this pro bono decision already. The old ass radio in the corner deciding to finally work right, that oldies station Mickey appreciates more than he lets on - playing some of Jimmy Reed's best. _Some tune called 'Baby',_ Mickey notes with a wince. Why the fuck did this have to happen when the redheaded preppy stepped into his workspace, daring to enter Mickey's life for that matter? What rights does the dude have with that nonplussed attitude at his sister's rudeness, his own grunts in response to Ian's friendly chatter, the whole general attitude his worker's have given the ginger by looks alone?

It doesn't phase the letterman fucker, not one bit. Mickey hates how much it impresses him. The kid has to be a Northsider, right? About Mickey's age, probably younger. _Highschool, upscale, jock. Yeah, that's it._ No other way to describe the too tight clothing that clings to the auburn, slicked back haired teenager. _Who the fuck he think he is comin' in here like this? Sideburns looking like he's spent his allowance on a professional Barber Shop chop job._

His hair, Mickey is grateful the guy is tall so his oogling the red mane isn't too obvious. Some cat's go for the tits on chicks, Mickey is a sucker for the hair on the non - rack chested variety. And Ian, Ian looks like he could be on the cover of one of Mandy's fancy ass magazines. Life or high fucking fashion. That orange glow sitting on his head looks like the middle of a whipped milkshake gathering together, pushing out one jutting red curl to drape across the freckled, creamy skin of Ian's forehead. _Jesus, does this Firecrotch have freckles on every inch of his skin?_

He's saying something again, something about cars, about his blue beauty. _It is. Even the driver's not so bad,_  Mickey's quick to let his mind brief him on.

Mickey can recognize beauty beneath the slums, he's well aware, and Ian's car is far from it. By the looks it seems like the kid had done more work than he told Mickey. Another reason Mickey actually invited someone into his office for a fucking soda pop or a beer of all the things. He himself could go for the whiskey flask he left at home, needing something stronger than a lack luster 'cold one'. Ian chortles a throaty, raspy sound that reminds Mickey of being out in the sun with a hood cracked in the heat, working the sweat right off his brows, drenched in summer Chicago air, parched for something iced to chug down.

"So, you said somethin' bout' a soda pop, Mickey?"

_Cold beverage. Soda.... Chug it down. FUCK._

Mickey shakes his head, cracking his inked knuckles as a nervous mannerism. Ian's green eyes filter to the action briefly, gone no longer than they stayed. Mickey raises a brow, but chooses to ignore it. "Right, right. Take a seat, man. I'll be right back."

Mickey can't seem to escape the confines of his office quick enough, striding on the strength in his legs to get him into the air - hot or not.

"Actually," Ian calls out, stepping in a holding swing around the office's oak door trim, pinning Mickey to his spot as he waits for Ian to finish whatever it is he's gonna say. "I'll take a beer if there's enough? If not I'll just about go for anything, okay?"

Mandy is at the garage's doorway seconds after Mickey scuffs his shoes on the ground in response to a grinning Ian Gallagher. She's eyeing his retreating form down in a less than subtle way, fingers flicking at her pearl necklace, tongue slicking across her teeth. _Did she really just go and put on fuckin' red lipstick?_ Mickey's irritation is starting to seep in, distracting him from continuing on through his day without a headache. _Great._ It would've been nice to get back to the shithole and relax under his cheap fan. No avail, luck isn't grazing any fucking side of his today.

Mickey kinda wishes his sister wasn't a she during times like this. He could easily do more than give her a simple 'you're being annoying, bitch - titty twister'. Like a knee to the balls and call it a day. Not really the healthiest way to be with your siblings, but when it's all you've known it becomes a constant kind of comfort. Not like Mickey would hurt any one of them badly, anyways. He'd fuck up and bury any fucker in Lake Michigan who attempted to cross his family though.

Passing said pain in his ass sister on his way out, Mickey resorts to childish tactic, reaching for the curl she let hang from her bun, tugging hard enough to pull it loose. He's barely gone from her reach to miss the shriek that pierces his ears.

"Shit-fucking-head! You know how long this took me?! I should rip your nipples off and feed them to your ass."

Mickey snorts, flipping her off. "Bitch, tell it to Alfred Hitchcock."

Fire-line free from his flaming sister, Mickey has a little more bounce to his step. No way would she go and shake her tiny tits at Gallagher with that hair now. Immature, sure. Smart? _Nah, who gives a fuck?_ Mickey gets to the car himself and the other Milkovich siblings share, leaning in to take two beers from the cooler, hidden under the beat up old leather seat. Can't have any workers being greedy on the booze, now can he? The beer is cold to his grease slicked bicep where it's cradled. He welcomes it, craving to put his own chilled bottle to his head. If Ian even knew what Mickey is thinking. _Maybe he'd be too polite to do anything?_ Mickey would shut his mouth from running if the kid ever found out. _Can't have good ol' pops knowing._

Mickey grinds his teeth together, chalking this a fault to all of the abusive humidity. His fingers tap against the moisture running down the deep brown bottles - craving a nicoteine fix. Badly. Stepping back into the building takes more willpower than Mickey knew possible. _Fuck Ian Gallagher._ He's gotta get his ass on the road so the guy gets his freckled ass out of here before there's more than the fourth of July fireworks exploding. Mandy moves by Mickey with a newly rejuvenated bun, slapping him hard on his shoulder, nicking his beer to crack open, checking her nails for cracks afterwards, making Mickey rolls his eyes.

"Headed down to Patsy's Pies to grab some lunch. Already took orders, you want your usual?"

Mickey nods, eager to put down the alcohol in favor of a much needed smoke. Food is also an encouraged endeavor.

"You think Lucille Ball in man form will want somethin'?" Mandy is half-sighing, half-smirking.

"Surprised you didn't skank stank your way in there to ask him, honestly," Mickey says, attempting to conceal that gnawing bite.

 _This weird feeling is bullshit._ He doesn't even know the fucker, but already wants to keep any eye fucking away from Gallagher.... Eyes that aren't his own.

"Fuck off, looser, he's in the can. Just go ask him real quick so I can go before the lunch hour packs the place full of dipshits." Mandy is retreating into Mickey's, well, the shared office, one of the beers with her.

"The fuck am I, a bloodhound on a leash at her beck and call?" Mickey huffs to himself, settling the beer down, no longer in the mood for it, whipping his cigarettes from his dirty pocket.

Slouching in choppy steps to his destination around the back of the building to knock on the bathroom door to see if the ginger wants a cheeseburger - Mickey bitches and kicks at the gravel and dirt to key his mood a little.

Good looks, peppy attitude, a car Mickey envies, and the attentions of his sister and himself? _Ian Gallagher should be a dead man._ Mickey puffs hard on the burning smoke that settles just right inside his lungs, pleasantly stinging. In his love affair with the Marlboro, Mickey stumbles over a junked car part left buried in the dirt. It lands him to a stop, the cherry tipping off his smoke, ashes piling to prick his fingers. He hisses and cusses the stick, stomping it out before he can stop his tantrum. Sliding off his cap Mickey swipes it across his sweat soaked hair, tucking it into his back pocket, grasping his empty cigarette pack. It crumbles under his bruising touch, his anger a little higher by nudging notice. First Gallagher fucking his focus up, now this shit? He's ready to go and beat his fist on that door, take the punk's order, scare the shit out of him and be over this. _It's not worth it._

"Yeah, just like that, please. **_Mhm._** You're so good at that."

Mickey freezes like a Walt-Disney creation in the goddamn headlights. He's familiarized himself with every crevice in that dauntingly-pleasurable voice, since the last twenty minutes he's been in close contact with it. Looking to his left he shouldn't be surprised that the sound is his voice, flowing from the bathroom window. He should tell him to cut it out? Quit being a fucking pervert? Yank Ian out of there and beat his ass black and blue with a tire iron? Mickey doesn't do any of those things. He doesn't want to do any of those things. He's got one foot in front of the other, right into that patch of weeded flowers nestled to the building's exterior, crouching down to see in through the smashed glass that held the bottom corner of the window frame. He swallows for bravery, blue eyes lifting to look. If he cursed Ian enough before, now he knows it's all fucked.

Ian has his shirt off his body, thrown across the dented paper towel dispenser, his pants and boxers shorts around his ankles, his cock in his hand. Mickey's got a bird's eye view of every dip and curve Ian's hips are carved with. The guy's ass muscular to match those spread thighs. His back dips pleasantly, shoulder blades flexing as he thrusts that dick into his large hand. Mickey's belly is a mess with this tumbling jumble of something he can place right off the bat. His eyes cloud over with a glazed warmth. His hands begin to shake, his jeans snuggling right against his hardening cock.

 _Gallagher's cock. His fucking thick, perfect looking cock._ It's heavy, Mickey can tell. Long, huge. Maybe eight or nine inches? The tip is flushed, shiny with a wet glare that Mickey recognizes, his tongue practically spicing with a sparking taste. Ian's trembling, body dripping with perspiration, skin wickedly salty, as he must be. Mickey's throat is dry, lips chapped. He licks them, wetting them in slow circling licks, his body residing where he knows is alarmingly dangerous to be. Where he has no right to be.

"Stroke my cock, just like that. Right there. Feels so good." Ian's voice is strong, heady, not cracking in the slightest. _Strong._ Like he is completely aware, in tune to exactly what he wants, that he needs this. His eyes are open, head tilting curiously at his own reflection in the generic mirror hung over the sink.

_He's watching himself get off._

Denim fabric cuts into Mickey in the most uncomfortable of ways, his zipper protruding, his thighs shaking, swaying apart. He can't touch himself. It's risky enough right here, like this. Sloppy sounds perk Mickey's attentions directly between Ian's legs. His fingers are yanking his cock, sliding back and forth, wrist snapping a few times. Mickey's bone dry, clinging to that window pane as if the ground is going to cave in below him.

"Oh yeah, oh god, yeah. You want me to open myself up for you?"

Mickey's heart plummets into his feet, knees cradling the grass. His cock painfully throbbing in jeans, aching to be satisfied. Mickey craving to come, rocking against the air at Ian's words. _Open himself up? How the fuck would he know about anything like that?_

"Fuck, Ian," Mickey whispers, clawing at the ground, his nails biting, chipping away the paint from the window pane as Ian spreads that firm ass apart with one hand, the other abandoning his cock for his fingers to slowly suck on. They're dripping with his saliva when Ian brings them back, edging one in circles, teasing his rim. Mickey is suctioned to the building, panting, one hand jerking his chain around his oil smudged, wet neck, his other hand abandoning to scratch inside his stained wife beater tank across his collar bone for something.... anything.

Gallagher's playing with himself in places Mickey knows any man would get shanked and a trip six feet under for. He's after something no skankoid with a pussy can give him. And Mickey hates it, fucking loathes how his heart is approaching euphoric places.

"Yeah, you like that? It's what I'm gonna do to your pretty little ass for teasing me in those fucking jeans. Fuck you so hard you can't stand for a week." Ian struggles, swiveling his fingers several times over to guide him to wide, dark eyes, lit by a spotlight of honey green. He scoops handfuls of paper towels across the sink, now back to tugging hard on his cock.

Mickey can't breathe. He gapes, fights to remember how to move, how to think without distraction. _This fucker gives it? With what he's packin'?_ Mickey clamps a hand across his mouth to muffle an involuntary moan, memorizing, committing himself to each motion Ian provides. His feverish movements indiciate one thing. Mickey bows up to watch the guy's throat constrict, his teeth clench, mouth drop open. A few gutteral whimpers from the ginger's mouth and Mickey watches Ian come, hard, his release spilling over his hand and across the paper towels, splattering into the sink.

Mickey's thoughts can't clear, one bouncing around in place of the other, crowding. The guy jerked off in his bathroom, jizzed in his sink. And all Mickey wants is to climb in through the window and let this dreamboat fucker bend him over six fuckin' ways into next Sunday.

Ian milks his orgasm with prologned strokes, little bouncing arches to calm down. He's breathing, body paved with pink patches of arousal, satisfaction. Mickey stumbles away, Ian being quick to clean himself. He's got his hat now in front of him, his normal walk not questioned. He thanks fuck he's got the stocky legs this time. Making it back into the office is a pill. Mandy already gone, prissy ass tired of waiting. He needs fucking air. Clipping the fan onto full blast, Mickey clutches the filing cabinet in a forward lean, his silver chain dangling at the bent motion in his own personal breeze.

 _Bent. Bent this way by Gallagher. Chain swaying. Having Ian pull it to hold him as he fucks him hard, shaking the office into nothing but destruction by freedom - is Mickey's rapidly shifting thoughts._ Fuck, now he's got actual scenarios in vivid detail playing out?

Maybe water will help him reign this shit in? _No, Fuckin' Jack will._ Anything. Mickey's is consumed in the smashing reality that there's only two options he has here, the latter one being lock himself in the dingy ass office bathroom and whack off until he can't stand upright. It wins out over asking Ian to fuck him over the desk, or in his car, in Ian's fucking Cadillac, in that bathroom, at his place when his dad is out. Mickey maneuvers behind the desk, painful, squeezing himself, needing to just... just.

"Hey, sorry about that. All day on the road, needed a bathroom break before the beer," Ian says, his presence sudden, his back to Mickey as he closes the door, babbling off about how Mandy had left strict instructions to do so, so that the other _'flying monkeys gone rogue from Oz'_ wouldn't see that they have anything other than soda at their disposal.

Mickey's throat closes into knots, his posture weaves. He has to try and sit before Ian can catch him.

"This mine? Thanks, man. It's real cool, this place you have, what you're doing for me. I can't really afford it." Ian unscrews the cap and Mickey's watching him like a hawk. This guy is perky as a fucking family sitcom, clothes in place like he didn't just get off. Even his fucking hair is fixed back. He wraps his mouth around the beer bottle, the liquid sloshing out to coat those perfect lips.

 _Yeah, Ian Gallagher is a fucking dead man,_ because Mickey wants him more than he's ever wanted anything.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preppy - Prep, popular person.  
> Cat - A guy.  
> Dude - you know this one, lol.

**Author's Note:**

> Slang terms used in this chapter :  
> Chubby : hot for something, stiff. Two variations it can mean. Mandy meant it as the first.  
> Preppy : someone stuck up, prep, snotty.  
> Neato : cool, awesome.  
> Candyass : a wimp.  
> Cat - cool dude, or cool.  
> Far out - amazing/awesome.  
> Out of sight - awesome, crazy, cool.


End file.
